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I didn't meet Paul in person until I was a teenager around 1998, at a Rock and Roll Hall of Fame ceremony back when they were held at the Waldorf Astoria in New York City. But, growing up, I always felt like I knew him. I had a habit of snooping through my pop's correspondence, and Paul was one of his buddies. Occasionally I'd find notes in progress to Paul, resting in the clutch of the typewriter. I knew that these letters were going either to Mr. Shaffer or to Mr. (Paul) Simon—men who bore the same initials as my father and who were also small and Jewish. It was a coincidence that fascinated me and caused me to believe they were all of the same pale pygmy tribe of funnymen—one I'd hopefully marry into someday.In 2009, with only a brief history of polite exchanges between us, I reached out to Paul. I was in bad shape. My dad, Phil Spector, had just been convicted of murder and shuttled off to prison. I got Paul's number from my mother, left him a voice message, and heard back from him within 15 minutes. We had lunch the next day. Our friendship has since grown, as has his avuncular role in my life. He is unblinkingly benevolent. When I got laid off from my job in publishing and was broke, he paid for my dog's emergency surgery. He wrote a funny blurb for my first book, the satirical mash-up, Fifty Shades of Dorian Gray (2012). No matter how unconvinced I am of any success in my career, Paul, like a good uncle, is always impressed.
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